


Holding Out for Fifty Pence

by asuralucier



Category: Episodes (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Irreverence, Culture Shock, Gen, Hollywood Shenanigans, Kind of Inspired by Episodes, M/M, No celebrities were harmed, Pining, Tags to be added, Virginity kind of after a fashion, meta meta meta, parody of a parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-08-18 18:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16522748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: ”If I’m really honest with you,” said the angel. “I’m still stuck on the idea that Down There would want to send you to Hollywood. Seems, what’s the word, redundant, doesn’t it?”“I’ve told them that,” Crowley said, staring glumly at the bottom of his teacup. “Since when do they ever listen to me?”Due to an “image management emergency,” Crowley relocates to Los Angeles and discovers Hollywood to be in a pristine state of disrepute. And no, he doesn’t have separation anxiety.(This can be read as a fusion withLuciferandEpisodes, but honestly, it’s just absurd meta with some pining. You do not have to have seenLuciferorEpisodesfor this to make sense. Also, no celebrities were harmed in the making of this fic.)





	1. Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from Marilyn Monroe: "Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. I know, because I turned down the first offer often enough and held out for the fifty cents.”

“I’m moving,” said Crowley. Although Down There had told him not to say anything until the last possible second -- (something to do with kicking the dog while it was down, although Crowley could have told them the expression didn’t exactly work that way) -- he’d kept this news to himself for precisely ten minutes. Maybe a bit less. 

Aziraphale handed him a cup of tea and looked less than interested, “Out of Finchley and finally joining the hubbub of society?” 

“I still can’t believe you live in Soho,” Crowley groused. “But yes, in a manner of speaking. I’ve put my flat up for sale.” 

“Up There calls it maintaining Equilibrium,” Aziraphale gave a slight shudder as he sat down with his own cup of tea. “I’m sure your people told you something similar. Where to, then?” 

“Hollywood,” said Crowley, watching the angel closely. “In _America_.” 

Now Aziraphale looked alarmed. He sat up straighter in his overplush armchair, which took some actual doing. If he’d been one inch more human, his spine might have groaned, “...For a moment there, I thought you’d been sent to Worcestershire.”* 

Worcestershire was no better, and now it was Crowley’s turn to wince. He’d driven past it once on the way to Birmingham on business and had tried hard to scrap any recollection of the place from his mind. “Nope, Hollywood in the Golden State. Although, you’d think Worcestershire makes sense.” 

”If I’m really honest with you,” said the angel. “I’m still stuck on the idea that Down There would want to send you to Hollywood. Seems, what’s the word, redundant, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve told them that,” Crowley said, staring glumly at the bottom of his teacup. “Since when do they ever listen to me?” He gulped his tea like he was wishing it was something stronger and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “ -- Anyway,” this was probably getting his hopes up, but damn it if Crowley wasn’t going to ask anyway, “don’t suppose you’ve received marching orders for something similar?” After all, the angel occupied a very particular corner of moral high ground and thus, Crowley thought, was only just better than him at keeping things close to the vest. 

Aziraphale paused to think about it, “ ‘Fraid not. We’d see it as a waste of resources, all things considered.”

“I should resent that,” said Crowley. “If you’re not contesting a place with _good, moral fervor_ , then clearly I’m not doing my job.” 

The angel made a noise of mild dissent; Crowley had no choice but to assume here that for no reason other than errant kindness -- which usually raised his hackles but not really -- Aziraphale was not going to remind him that the per the arrangement, neither of them had been doing their respective jobs for several hundred years. 

“...Come on then, out with it. If it’s really that bad I could take it to my people.” Aziraphale said. 

“It’s,” Crowley found himself scanning Aziraphale’s bookshelves. Old, old, and what do you know, _really_ old. The angel clearly considered the Romantics to be the pinnacle of contemporary literature, which was, Crowley had to admit, both a good and bad thing. Right. “...I’ll show you. After we find a pub.” He could use a drink, or several. 

 

Crowley left Aziraphale to guard a hard-won corner table at Cheshire Cheese and popped into the nearest Waterstones. Cheshire Cheese was dark and dank in the way Crowley liked and in the way that Aziraphale just about tolerated with a drink in hand. Ill repute, as it happened, followed Crowley nearly everywhere. A shouty kid got into a spectacular altercation with his mother right there in the queue and maybe the kid was going places, having now acquired a knack for petty larceny soon to nurtured into grand larceny, time and fortune willing. 

Still, Crowley made it back to the angel and poked his purchase not-so-grandly in the angel’s face. “Have a look at this, right.” 

Aziraphale did, and his inquisitive frown deepened, “This looks like a Satanic picture book,” he announced after a quick skim. “I suppose it’s a bit like the Bible brochures our lot give out...even if I keep complaining about them. Mostly misspellings, and of course, the false advertising, you wouldn’t believe.”

“It’s a comic book, or, a graphic novel if you want to be fussy about it,” Crowley sighed. “Do you see my predicament now?” 

“Um,” Aziraphale’s expression scrunched in thought and then gave up again. He reached for his pint, and turned his attention back to the cover of the graphic novel. You’d think the title _Lucifer_ would have given the angel some indication, but that’s the thing about ethereal beings, you never knew what they didn’t know. “...Afraid not, darling.” 

“This,” Crowley jabbed his finger meaningfully into the comic, “is going to ruin my _life_. It’s the reason I’m relocating to fucking Hollywood next door to one of those people in _Friends_. Angel, they are _adapting_ this hogwash born out of some disastrously human imagination for television. Television!” 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, still,” Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a worried look. He never watched television and barely read the papers except the sections on style and culture, “...a pint’s not going to do it this time, is it? I’ll go buy you a whiskey.” 

“Maybe make it a double,” said Crowley miserably and downed the rest of his pint. 

 

Three double whiskeys later, Aziraphale thought he’d just about dragged the whole story out of Crowley, just about. “...An image problem. That sounds barking mad.” 

“Yes, _thank_ you. An image problem,” Crowley nodded emphatically and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I mean, that’s not what you think about when you think of Hell, is it?” 

“Admittedly, I’m biased,” Aziraphale slurred. “More than a little. Weren’t you proud of television?” 

“Well, sure,” Crowley shrugged. “If you think about it, I still am. I just thought...well, if they had an _image problem_ , they could have nixed it from the get-go. Where do you think the words “development hell” comes from?” 

“It does have the word ‘hell’ in it,” Aziraphale reached for an empty shot glass and stared mournfully at it. The muddled reflection of the glass distorted the cover of the comic and also Lucifer’s face, which when Aziraphale bothered to take another glance, looked remarkably liked David Bowie.^ He rubbed hard at the bridge of his nose, “...Well, what do you want _me_ to do about it?” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley said. “Rouse some Christian mothers to action? Stall production?” 

Aziraphale gave him a harsh look “You know my job doesn’t work like that. How was this printed in the first place?” 

“Reading was going out of fashion,” said Crowley. “Comic books were nerdy and didn’t reach the right demographic. I don’t know, a lot of things went into that decision. I wasn’t involved directly, but I heard it was ugly. But everyone still watches television. Worse yet, it’s going to be put on the Internet.” 

The Internet was a relatively new invention. Aziraphale hemmed and hawed about it, until he’d discovered Project Gutenberg. Crowley, on the other hand, held the Internet in high regard, it promoted Discord in all her guises and made his job easier most of the time. 

Except when it didn’t. 

“I can _talk_ to my people,” Aziraphale said carefully. “Tell them you’re concerned.” 

“No, you tell them _you’re_ concerned,” Crowley said. “About the damage we can do if we get this image problem under control. It could be damaging. Damning. Hellish.” He paused here to consider the idea that he sounded desperate. He was. 

“You do realize they told me not to intervene in the Mel Gibson debacle,” Aziraphale waved at the bar man and pointed pointedly at their empty shot glasses. 

“Oh, I remember that.” 

“My people just hate the telly,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll see what I can do.” 

 

Crowley lived in Finchley, a stone’s throw away from Highgate Cemetery where his brethren sometimes lurked with purpose if they wanted to get a hold of him.** Hastur was especially guilty of this. 

Under orders, he’d moved into a small one room flat with a nice (read: razor-neat) green hedge that was the envy of the neighbors and the gossip circuit intensified around the block. He did the best he could, critiquing the local boys’ graffiti for maximum effect and joined a particularly vicious bookclub to tear apart _Pride and Prejudice_ and also Mrs. Easter’s third marriage and Mrs. Plummage’s sickly sweet carrot cake. Crowley had a routine here, and five years was a bit of a blip across the entirety of his whole existence, he’d enjoyed his time here and was going to miss his routine. The last few times, he’d moved from Bexley, to New Cross, to Pimlico, and Finchley was massively preferable to all of those places.

 _”STILL THINK OF ME THE WAY YOU’VE COME TO THINK OF ME,_ \-- Crowley?”^^

At the sound of his name, Crowley nearly dropped the wineglass he was holding, “Jesus _Christ_. What do you want?” The question was directed to his surround-sound system, which was hooked up to his iPod currently on shuffle.

“I resent that,” said Freddie Mercury with a touch of angelic reproach. “It’s me, Aziraphale.” 

“I could have sworn I bought you a mobile phone,” said Crawley. He slumped down next to a cardboard box with **CASSETTES** scrawled haphazardly across the top in blue marker. 

“I threw it in the Thames,” said the angel brightly. 

“You what.”

“I’m kidding, but it has died,” Aziraphale said. “It’ll probably come back to life in about fifteen minutes. But I figure you’d want to hear the news right away. I talked to them about your image problem and emphasized that I was really quite worried about the comic novel thing upsetting the terms of our agreement. What with television and Internet television, I made it clear that if they were sending you to Los Angeles to manage this emergency that we -- I mean, Up There, should think about responding in kind.” 

“Graphic novel, but go on,” Crowley drank his wine and held his breath. It all sounded promising so far. “It really is an emergency, I’m almost all packed. I was afraid you wouldn’t come through, old chap.” If Aziraphale managed to pull this off, then Crowley was going to let the angel have whatever he wanted for two weeks. Maybe even three. Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

The surround sound system stayed eerily silent. 

“So I’m going to start unpacking my boxes,” Crowley said hopefully. "You never know, with this celestial stalemate _et cetera_. I'm sure it's going to take ages to sort out."

The silence was growing judgemental and even oppressing.

“...Please say something,” Crowley said. He went to pour himself more wine, but before that, he cranked the volume of the surround sound system all the way up. The silence now cackled. 

“ -- You’re going to take this the wrong way,” Aziraphale said slowly. “But I. This is out of my hands. I’ve got orders to stay out of it. No sense in sticking my nose in a lost cause, they said. Waste of time and precious resources. Like I said before. They want me to stay put, and I can’t disobey, so...” the rest of this, outside of the angel’s preface, was delivered very fast and faded into an unconvincing, injured silence. Like he had any cause to be injured. 

Crowley’s mind translated that to a fairly wounded, _I told you so_. 

“...I’m sorry, Crowley.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Crowley, in the not nice way that wasn’t unnatural to him, but he rarely spoke this way to the angel. Well, he did, way back in the beginning, but that was a long time ago, “Anyway, I’ve got to pack.” 

“Crowley, wait --” 

Crowley muted the volume on his speaker and went to fetch another bottle of wine. For moderate emergencies, he kept a bottle of 1993 Chateau Latour. 

It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * There is actually a village called Hollywood in Worcestershire near Birmingham.
> 
> ^ At Gaiman's request, Lucifer does look like David Bowie in the early editions of the _Sandman_ comics.
> 
> ** Highgate cemetery is also the burial place of Karl Marx, who I like to think Crowley visits from time to time. 
> 
> ^^ Lyrics to Queen's "Teo Torriatte."


	2. La-La Land

“...Don’t tell me,” said the Metatron. “Despite express orders to not do anything in this absurd affair, you’re already thinking of a sneaky workaround, aren’t you, angel?” 

“Sneaky workaround,” Aziraphale cringed. The Metatron’s vernacular was pointed and wounding, “You must have me confused with someone else. Crowley, perhaps.” 

“It’s getting harder and harder to tell, these days, with you,” the Metatron said. As if to prove a point, the voice used its Godly, righteous instincts and snuck into the back of Aziraphale’s mind and tugged at a particularly stubborn knot of thoughts inside Aziraphale’s head. Just to show him who was boss, to use a gaudy, entirely human turn of phrase.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He willed himself full of Angelic fervor. Usually, he let the Metatron’s posturing slide, but on the back of the orders he’d just received he felt slightly unangelic and a tad unkind, “I resent that.” 

The Metatron retreated, “Seriously though,” it said. “No funny business. Like moving to Denver to circumvent the rules.” 

“...Why Denver?” Aziraphale furrowed his brows. The Metatron was speaking like it’d never been to America, but then again, neither had Aziraphale and maybe it was bad manners, if not downright against the rules to question the Ineffable Wisdom of the Voice of God. Still, the words had slipped out before he could really help it. “I’m not -- being difficult. Promise, I’m just. Trying to work it out, I guess.” 

“Never mind,” The Metatron said quickly. “Never mind about working it out. Just obey. Stay _put_. Remember the rules.”

“I remember,” said Aziraphale, feeling a bit spit upon in an ineffable way. He didn’t always remember the rules, but he remembered the spirit of the rules most of the time and that was going to have to do. Besides, Metatron wasn’t in his head now to accuse him of anything sneaky. “...Anything else?” 

“Oh, yes, as a matter of fact. We need you in Essex this weekend. St. James the Less and St. Helen’s, do you know it?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. 

“I’ll send you the address,” said the Metatron. “They’re trying out some sort of thing with tongues. It’s better that you be there to supervise. Do you remember our revised safety protocols?” 

After Aziraphale said good-bye to the Metatron, he tried speaking unto Crowley’s surround sound system again and came up with nothing. Well, that was just _fine_. Throwing a tantrum, even a silent one, was in the demon’s blood, after all. Aziraphale was going to fix himself a cup of hot cocoa with a few generous drops of brandy and go to bed. 

 

Aziraphale did not hear from Crowley again until a few hours before the demon was due at Heathrow. In fact, he himself was just out the door, on his way to St. James the Less and St. Helen’s. 

“...The Less,” Crowley arched a brow, looking faintly amused and almost cozy with one of those puffy U-shaped pillows around his neck. “Is there a The Great -- er out there somewhere? There’re so many Jameses out there thanks to your lot that I can’t be expected to keep them all straight.”

“James the Greater is _the_ original James,” Aziraphale huffed.* “Something you should know. But I think there’s a church named after him in Leicester. Anyway, you don’t hear me clamoring on about the masses of Damiens invading sport.”^ 

“...Yes, but you don’t watch football,” Crowley said. He didn’t watch much football either but it was in the agreement that he showed up to some ManU games once or twice a year to make sure things got rowdy. 

They stared at each other. Each was probably feeling some proportion of _dread_ , but each for their own reasons, was going to write off that dread as mere human contamination and ergo absurd and hardly worth any discussion. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you to the airport,” said Aziraphale. “Expecting much trouble?” 

“Always,” Crowley said, the word plagued with doubt. “But they’re making me fly RyanAir, so the trouble will probably make itself. Quality assurance or something. Listen --” 

“Yes?” Aziraphale urged, feeling a splurge of something like hope shoot up his throat. “No wait, me first.”

“After you,” Crowley said, with a patience that was uncharacteristic and belying of his demonic nature. He too, held his breath.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have any good news to give,” said the angel. “Although the Metatron did accuse me of wanting to move to Denver. Curious.” 

“I don’t even know what that means,” Crowley said. “The Metatron clearly has never set foot in America.” 

“I thought so as much, but it wasn’t my place to argue,” said Aziraphale. “Anyway, I got you this.” He waited until Crowley held out his hand to drop a perfect square of folded parchment sealed with velvety red wax, just recently dried and still a little warm to the touch. 

“What’s this?” 

“Good fortune of the ineffable kind,” said Aziraphale. “Say, if you ever need something to balance things out...for emergencies. You’ll probably never make use of it.” He waved his hands, “But you know, if you do.” 

“Ah,” Crowley said. He stared at the parchment, as if he was wanting for it to be something else. Then he put the parchment into the pocket of his leather jacket and put on his sunglasses. He could have sworn he had something to say to Aziraphale, but for the life of him couldn’t remember. 

“Well. Good-bye, angel.” 

“Good-bye, Crowley.” Aziraphale stood unmoving from his spot on the pavement until the Bentley disappeared around the corner. 

 

An excruciating nineteen hours, forty-five minutes, and thirteen seconds later, Crowley found himself standing in the Arrivals terminal of LAX, looking worse for wear. The screeching of a possibly colicky baby was still ringing in his ears and his nose was still filled with the sickly stench of some poor bloke’s puke. It’d been an uneventful journey over all, which was good for the Quality Assurance side of things but not so good for Crowley’s mental health. He’d also lost his luggage. 

There was a woman standing near the barriers holding up a placard. It had **PROFESSOR A. J. CROWLEY** printed in block capitals. 

“Um, hello.” Crowley said to the woman. “I guess I’m A. J. Crowley.” 

The woman had a bottle-blonde, severe bob, the sort sported by women in certain positions. She looked as if she’d like to eat him when she smiled. Crowley had never seen so many teeth all at once on a human being. “Hi, A. J., I’m Carol Rance, head of programming? We spoke on the phone.” 

“Y-yes, I remember. Thanks for coming to pick me up.” 

“I have been waiting for _three hours_ ,” Carol said. “You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you let us book your flights.” 

“I have some very fussy people behind me,” Crowley said. “They’re really set in their ways.”

“Your people -- meaning the Demonology Association of Great Britain?” 

“Yes, why not,” said Crowley. He had to pick up the newly made cards at the printers just the day before. Card-carrying members of the association were henceforth affectionately known as Dagbies. He’d handed one to their usual bartender at the Cheshire Cheese and called it marketing. The cards were printed on heavy cream stock and it was a shame that they'd all go to waste.

“Hiring you was Merc’s idea, the network president?” Carol was tucking the placard under her arm and leading him outside to the rather bunged up taxi rank. “I’m of the opinion that too much expertise slows everything down.” 

“I don’t understand,” Crowley said. 

“Well, it’s TV, isn’t it?” Carol gave an expertly annoyed toss of her head; in Crowley’s humble opinion, it made her look a bit possessed, but still stately. A hard won balance all around, “Expertise,” here, she cut her throat with a finger almost as severe as her haircut, “is boring, it doesn’t sell advertising. It really weighs down a story when we could be jogging along. I hate this thing that people try to do now, take something that works and just give it a twist and then somehow -- it’s somehow _my_ fault that the ratings tank. Anyway, come on, here’s our limo.” 

“Oh _boy_ ,” said Crowley in his best estimation of American surprise. 

 

They indeed had a limo. A fuck off, ten-seater that was happily pumping excess CO2 into the wide road behind them. Crowley suddenly missed his Bentley and roads with just two lanes winding along the English countryside. 

Carol was sucking on an e-cigarette and looking at him up and down in a way that was vaguely discomfiting. 

“Could we have some music?” 

Carol shrugged and reached back to rap at the window, getting the driver’s attention. “Gary, turn on the radio. -- Anything in particular?” 

“Lady’s choice,” Crowley said, feeling slightly ill. 

“Just put on whatever,” Carol said and went back to her e-cigarette.

A heavily distorted bassline poured into the speakers: “ _HOW CAN ANYBODY LOSE YOU? HOW CAN ANYBODY LOVE YOU AND LOSE YOU AND NOT LOSE THEIR MINDS_ \-- Crowley? Crowley, thank God.”**

Aziraphale sounded like a woman with an American accent. It was just jarring enough, that coupled with the fact that Crowley was suddenly relieved to hear from the angel, that he felt inclined to let the God thing slide for the moment, “Hello. I’m alive. Just about.” 

“How your flight?” asked the angel. 

“Awful.” 

Aziraphale made a sound, and Crowley felt compelled to add, “More awful than I would have liked. We had an emergency layover in Schipol and I’ve lost my luggage.” 

“Oh dear.” 

“Right?” Crowley said miserably. 

“...What are you listening to, anyway?” Aziraphale said, who was by now kind of used to hearing himself as Freddie Mercury or Shane MacGowan at a push. “And what in the world are these _lyrics_? Conjunctions everywhere, makes me dizzy.”

“I certainly don’t mind them. It’s very existential?” Crowley tried. “Bear with me one moment.” He snapped his fingers at Carol, who turned towards him. “What are we listening to?”

“Oh, this? It’s St. Vincent,” Carol said. “She’s very hot right now. Which means her licensing fees are through the roof.” As punctuation, she gave a little whistle and went back to staring out the window. They’d barely moved three feet. 

Crowley reported the first bit back to Aziraphale, who in turn said he didn’t know of a St. Vincent who had such strong vocals and wished that St. Vincent would cool down soon. He was sending her his best despite his personal reservations about her lyrics. He was an angel after all, fair was fair. It was his job to look after everybody. 

“It’s fucking thirty-eight degrees,” said Crowley, peering at the thermometer dial on the driver’s panel. The dial actually reported 101 but Crowley loathed the Imperial system, despite having used it himself until recently. He was, after all, a proponent of and a slave to progress, until he wasn’t. “No wonder they call it La-La Land.” 

“How do you figure, dear boy?” 

“I don’t figure anything,” Crowley leaned forward and stuck his head straight into the blast of the air conditioning. It did not make him feel any better, “Don’t mind me, I’m just going mad.” 

 

Carol ordered the limousine to stop outside of a mansion the size of a whole council estate. Despite having driven past a gate with a guard in uniform, the mansion was gated too. 

“Does this place have a high rate of burglary?” Crowley wondered. He enjoyed a good burgle once in a while, but now he found himself worried about his privacy. He didn’t do it too often, but from time to time, he enjoyed a good slither when he was alone. It helped him feel connected to who he was supposed to be. He thought about how he would quite like to do it now, because he was in such a strange place. 

“Oh,” here, Carol lowered her voice. “It’s for the neighbors. We film here sometimes, mostly our reality shows, and everyone gets up our asses.” 

“Ah,” Crowley said. “Right, I’ll get settled in, shall I?” 

“Yeah, do that,” Carol thumbed through her mobile. “I’ll send Tom over in a couple hours to talk character? You’ll be working closely with him. But the screening audiences _loved_ Tom’s take.” 

Crowley nodded, and tried to look like he knew what she was talking about. 

“Right.” 

“You know, on Lucifer, the title character?” 

“Yep.” 

“...You did get the scripts, didn’t you?” She looked at him severely, “Your assistant said you’d read them on the plane?” 

 

There was a faintly unpleasant smell that permeated whole of Crowley’s mansion. Also, the front door was broken. 

“The front door is open,” the front door intoned flatly. 

“It is not,” said Crowley irritably. “Kindly fuck _off_.” 

The door didn’t say anything after that. 

“You know, you should be nicer to machines,” said a voice behind him. “They’re poised to take over the world. And maybe put me out of a job.” 

He turned, and found the source of the voice and the smell all wrapped up in one. A dark-skinned woman in a dark slinky dress and sequined boots leaned meaningfully against the banister of a giant staircase, the sort that was used as part of television set pieces to look impressive...which kind of explained things. A scrap of newspaper or some advert flyer was stuck to her left heel. 

Crowley had to take a minute, “...Pollution? That you?” 

It was all a bit of a shock. The last time he’d seen Pollution-née-Pestilence was in 2010, when Pollution had gone by the name Jim White and was on his way to the Gulf of Mexico. Jim White had sported a three-day beard and twinkly, grandfatherly eyes and he’d been so very clumsy. But of course, no one remembered. 

“Oh, come on,” Pollution smiled at him, all teeth, healthily browned by diligent chain-smoking, no doubt, “This is Los Angeles. You can’t be all that surprised to see me.” She seemed to be very into her new getup, going as far as to adopt a walk that made him want to stare at the movements of her hips. Because they were snakelike and maybe Crowley could appreciate her technique. Pollution also picked up an accent from somewhere, but he couldn’t place where. 

“What happened to…” Crowley gestured and then gave up. “What’s with the getup?” 

“It’s kind of hard being a man in this town right now. Why make life any more difficult?” she shrugged. “I go by Inez.”

“Okay, Inez. I think I can remember that.” 

Inez pointed her chin towards the top of the stairs, “Come. Shall I give you the grand tour?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General notes: _Lucifer_ premiered in 2016 so this fic takes a general 2016ish vibe. I’ve borrowed ‘Hollywood’ from several sources including the network from _Episodes_ because it gives me structure and something to riff off of but you might recognise bits of Hollywood from the LA in _Lucifer_ , _Bojack Horseman_ , _UnREAL_ and other places. If it’s halfway funny it will probably be here, but the focus will always be on Crowley being a fish out of water. 
> 
> In the book, Pollution replaced Pestilence but I’ve taken a halfway point between the book and the TV show and made her into the same person but with plenty of experience in self-reinvention. Now to the footnotes:
> 
> * Yes, Aziraphale means the one from the Bible.
> 
> ^ Apologies to all Damiens, but there really are a lot of you in sport, particularly football. 
> 
> ** Lyrics taken from St. Vincent’s “Los Ageless” which was also used in the season 5 premier of _Bojack Horseman_.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! Comments and kudoes appreciated and cuddled.


	3. Nice

“Excuse me,” said a voice very near Aziraphale’s ear. “I’ve come to speak to you about your ad.” 

Aziraphale glanced at the grandfather clock on the opposite wall (it was antique, circa the late nineteenth century and the auction house from which he’d purchased it had even branded the clock as “small and attractive.” To be fair, Aziraphale had yet to lay eyes on an unattractive grandfather clock to this day). His mind was still on Crowley, who was now belatedly, finally in La-La Land and didn’t sound like he was particularly well.

Aziraphale worried for him. Despite who Crowley was and what he represented, Aziraphale couldn’t exactly help it. 

“Hello? Anyone there?” 

Aziraphale’s intrinsic obedience kicked in just then and he found himself staring at a young woman. There was something vivacious about her face although he couldn’t tell you why. One of life’s many ineffabilities as per its Heavenly origins. 

“Yes, sorry? I dozed off.” 

“I’ll say,” said the young woman. She had an interesting face, in that Aziraphale couldn’t quite tell how she’d been put together. She had curly hair and green eyes and a dimple on her left side when she smiled and her nose had freckles on them and was just a touch too small, a quasi-button nose, if you will. “You still hiring?” She nodded towards the sign that he’d handwritten and tacked to the unblemished glass of his storefront. **Now Recruiting: Part Time Assistant -- Occultists Welcome, enquire within**. 

Aziraphale had agonized long and hard over whether to add ‘Occultists Welcome.’ On the one hand, pandering to the occult was very much against his ethereal sensibilities, but on the other hand, he was very much aware of the need for a certain sort of...well, Crowley always called it “cynicism” was needed to bring balance to the Ineffable Plan. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop was situated in a cozy nook in Charing Cross and it was sort of blink-and-you’d-miss-it sort of affair what with other commercial giants like Foyles and longstanding secondhand legacies like Quinto Bookshop commanding the fleeting attention of the usual tourist. If that wasn’t enough, Aziraphale’s shop, A. Ziraphale’s Literary Curiosities (Rare Books, Antiques, est. 1893) also had to contend with the mishmash of offers located on nearby Cecil Court.*

“It’s not a joke, right, ‘Occultists welcome,’” the young woman said. “Because I’ve been down Cecil Court and they laughed me out.” 

“It’s not what it used to be,” Aziraphale agreed. “Used to be rowdier, somehow, more accepting. You should hear some of the stories my father used to tell.” 

“Ah,” said the young woman and it made Aziraphale question his delivery. He was sure now, that Crowley would have had a problem with how un-human it was that Aziraphale stuck to all but antiquated turns of phrase like “My father” rather than something more hip like “my old man,” which surprisingly denoted both affection and also disdain for one’s patriarchal heritage. Or even, the familiar “Dad” or “Da” if Aziraphale ever felt like representing the little folk -- an implication that the demon had made once, to which the angel had, in accordance to the agreement, taken offense. 

He missed the tenets of the agreement, if not necessarily Crowley. The emptiness was felt very keenly in Aziraphale’s want of Godly obedience in his manlike veins. 

“Has this been in your family since 1893?” She mused, “I’m surprised they haven’t bought you out yet.” 

“Foyles makes me an offer every year,” Aziraphale smiles. “So far, no cigarette.” 

“Sorry?”

“Cigar, I meant cigar.” Aziraphale amended himself quickly, “Why don’t I make us a cup of tea? We can have a chat, Miss…”

“Device,” she said, pronouncing it like you would when you said “remote control device” rather than something more exotic, like a French or even German (although the latter begged tremendous use of the imagination. Probably more than any real human could bear). “My name is Anathema Device. Please say the whole thing, Anathema. I detest nicknames.” 

“Anathema Device,” Aziraphale said. He approved, it was a very Occultish name for an individual who professed to practicing the Occult. “Nice name. I’ll go put the kettle on. How do you take it?” 

Anathema folded herself very neatly into an overstuffed chair, “Two sugars, please. No milk.” 

 

“So to sum up,” said Inez with a grand sweeping gesture that nearly caused a balled up roll of newspaper to thwack Crowley in the face, “Don’t go in the hot tub and you’ll be fine?” She’d been in around these parts rather a bit too long, it seemed. Inez was even picking up one of those valley accents that dictated every phrase end in a question. It was a bit disconcerting. 

They’d walked by the hot tub, which was out on the fuck off decking supported by thick pine beams. It looked clean enough, but when Pollution was polite enough to warn you off a certain space, you had the sense not to doubt her.

“Looks like a nice hot tub, though,” Crowley said. He’d never been in a hot tub. 

“It is _very_ nice,” Inez assured him. “But I’d just get cleaners to fumigate the whole thing first, if I were you.”

Crowley had to think a minute, “Do you fumigate a hot tub? Is that the done thing?” The accent was creeping up on him too. Now it was doubly disconcerting. 

Inez shrugs, “It’s not exactly my department.”

“So it isn’t.” Crowley ran a thoughtful hand through his hair; he was suddenly very aware of the fact that he smelled like the airport and the unreasonably warm weather was making a shower seem like a good idea. “...So, can I have a shower?” 

“Have a shower,” Inez said. “Then we can go over the scripts that are in the study. They’re like, totally hilarious.” 

 

Anathema Device sipped her tea daintily and nibbled on a chocolate digestive. Aziraphale watched her and thought her very human. Even if she professed to be an occultist. 

“So, erm. Done much shop work? We don’t get terribly busy around here,” Aziraphale said. “But my old assistant suddenly had to relocate and I’ve not run this place by myself in well, practically centuries. That’s an exaggeration, by the way.” 

“I gathered that,” said Anathema. “Do you have a lot of occultist material or something?” 

“I’ve got a lot of Bible misprints,” Aziraphale said, feeling a touch desperate. He tried to cling on to the last time someone had been impressed by his wares. It was not that often, but Aziraphale, being an angel, of course had a long memory. “Including one _Bugger Alle This_ Bible. I could show you if you’d like, it’ll make you laugh.” 

“That’s really stretching the definition of occultist material,” said Anathema, not looking terribly impressed. 

“I’ve also got some prophecies. Books on how to de-worm oneself from demonic possession,” Aziraphale added hopefully. 

“Hm,” Anathema said. 

Somewhere, there was a ringing sound. It was loud, obnoxious and, even chirpy. An odd combination if Aziraphale had anything to say about it, but Crowley had once accused him of being a luddite and then the whole incident had lead to Aziraphale being the proud owner of a mobile flip phone. It was said flip phone that was demanding his attention now, and Aziraphale sighed deeply. The lack of a Caller ID told him everything he needed to know. He just had one of those feelings, backed up by a canny sense of angelic wisdom and foresight.

“I didn’t know they still _made_ those,” said Anathema.

“Well, they _do_ , but mostly for drug dealers and hitmen, and I’m neither.” said Aziraphale a little put out. “That’s a quote, by the way.” 

“Yeah, I gathered. Don’t you need to get that?” 

“Oh, yes, I suppose.” Aziraphale said. “Excuse me.” 

 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” said Crowley. He was feeling better after his shower, but the state of these scripts were putting a serious damper on his mood. It’d taken him a little work to find the study, but now that he had, he was wondering how on earth he’d even missed it in the first place. Crowley had lived in comfortable enough quarters in Finchley. His flat had had two rooms; one where he slept (or at least, played at sleeping) and the other to do whatever, although the one time Aziraphale had deigned to visit him, had insisted that Crowley transform his second room into a study and stock up on books. The angel had even suggested that Crowley shell out for one of those Pentagram Graffiti artbooks sold at the used book festival held near Embankment at the weekends. Crowley had bought the book in the proper way rather than magicking it back home because the angel had impressed upon him that upholding capitalism was indeed worse than “stealing.” 

(Crowley was still puzzling that one out. The reason it was taking so long was that it simply wasn’t a priority and he often forgot to ruminate on it.) 

Anyway, this study was basically the size of Crowley’s sitting room back home plus some of his kitchen, maybe half, and wasn’t filled with books, except some cardboard with fancy book spines painted on. There was Charles Dickens, Danielle Steele, Bertram Russell (spelt incorrectly) and Stephenie Meyer, whose novels that Crowley had never read but he was pretty sure she was doing illiteracy a great favor and there must be some way of getting a human a commendation. 

Stranger things had happened since. 

“...Hello?” said Aziraphale-as-himself. Or, as the manlike thing he often was for practicality’s sake. Aziraphale apparently once tried to show Crowley what he really looked like and Crowley had gone blind for three days. They’d both been drunk and afterwards, they’d made a Very Sober Decision not to do it again. 

“Oh, great, you haven’t thrown your phone in the Thames, then.” 

“I thought about throwing it under a bus today,” said Aziraphale brightly. “...How are you, dear boy?” 

“I’m sitting in a study without any books. Share my horror.” 

Crowley could hear the angel shudder in sympathy. 

“And these scripts are absolutely _awful_ ,” said Crowley. “Take Adult Disneyland. What comes into your head when I say that to you?”

“Erm,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t want to say.” 

“Humor me, please,” said Crowley, in a desperate attempt that would have made him angelic in any other circumstance but this was _special_ ; this was the pits. 

“Yes, fine, but after this I have to go. I’m actually in the middle of an interview.” 

“An interview with -- who?” 

The idea of Aziraphale in an interview was not, as one would think, as foreign a concept as it would have otherwise seemed to Crowley. Not so long ago, Death (better known as the Grim Reaper in some circles but he disliked the stigma carried by the word grim) had been incidentally roped in for an interview at a Job Centre because someone had keeled over at their desk, and both parties had left the experience worse for wear.^ Death was of the opinion that death wasn’t as much grim as it was Inconvenient. The word inconvenient, however, was off the table, as it had been ruined by a certain documentary.**

(Aziraphale and Crowley tried hard to ignore various rumblings that moved throughout America like a continuous bowel movement [which, was to say consistently unpleasant] but sometimes it was unavoidable -- also like a bowel movement.) 

“The young lady’s name is Anathema Device. Apparently she would prefer if I said the whole thing but I can see it being shortened to Thelma.” 

“What a name.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry for going off on a tangent,” said the angel. “Did you need something from me?” 

Was that a sliver of hope Crowley gleaned from Aziraphale’s voice, or something that he gleaned simply because -- something else. Crowley cleared his throat, “Humor me?” He used his seductive voice, to which the angel was all but impervious. 

“...Erm. I’ve forgot what I was going to say, honest.” 

“You don’t forget,” said Crowley a touch crossly. It was true; sometimes, they misplaced things like anyone else, but they’d never go as far as to forget. 

“Well. Then I imagined Mickey and his friends doing unimaginable things to each other.” Aziraphale spoke very fast, as if he was wishing that Crowley would mishear him. Mishearing was kind of in the same vein as forgetting as far as otherworldly beings were concerned, so the angel was out of luck. 

Here’s something that you, dear reader, might like to know about Aziraphale, whose guilty pleasures previous to discovering Disney films in the mid-to-late nineties ran the gamut from cocoa to Prosecco to maybe Cava if he were feeling adventurous. Which was to say they really weren’t guilty so much as...slightly gluttonous, but that seemed acceptable in the scheme of things. The Disney films, starting from _The Lion King_ , which Aziraphale apparently deemed educational rather than, Crowley thought, preposterous and copyright-infringing and most of all, the sheer _lack of imagination_ , but apparently Aziraphale loved a good Hamlet. Even if it was American, appalling, and worst yet, commercial. 

“Really? Well, that’s angelic of you,” said Crowley, feeling a bit smug. 

“You tempted me,” said the angel. “That is unfair.” 

A knock sounded on the door of the study, and Inez poked her head in, “...Tom’s here. You need to get off the phone. Tell your boyfriend I say hi, by the way.” 

“Who’s that?” Aziraphale queried. 

“It’s Pollution,” Crowley supplied dully. “She goes by Inez now. Don’t ask me to explain, it’s rather complicated.” 

“It rather is,” Inez agreed. “Hello, angel.” 

“Hello,” said Aziraphale agreeably. “We’re not boyfriends.” 

“Not yet you’re not,” said Inez and swanned out of the room. “Anyway you,” she pointed a finger towards Crowley again, “Off the phone. Down There says I have to put you to work. _Actual_ work, not the namby-pamby hedgemongering bollocks you’re probably used to.” 

 

Lucifer was _Welsh_.

Or rather, Tom Ellis, who was set to star in the series, was _Welsh_. He did sort of have a demonic-possession vibe going on...or maybe it was just his well-placed eyeliner. Tom jovially informed Crowley that it was character building.^^

“What, to wear makeup?” 

Crowley was at a crossroads. It was always his job to make sure the world was mired in a degree of evil and bad choices. But these choices! They weren’t as bad as they were utterly tasteless and tacky. He’d also always considered himself to be cool, but maybe coolness went by a different set of criteria across the Atlantic.

“I don’t want to have _too_ much fun playing him, you know what I mean, mate? The eyeliner is sort of a reminder to self. Kind of like a sober coin.” 

“Ah,” said Crowley. “Been here long? In Los Angeles, I mean.” 

“A year or so,” Tom said, taking on the air of someone who hadn’t been around long but certainly more than _you_. “Tell you what, I’m starving. What do you say to you and me getting some food and then talking shop? How do you feel about Mexican?”

“Erm,” said Crowley. “I don’t know. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I’m still working on this despite being really really slow. Thanks for sticking with me! 
> 
> * Cecil Court is a well-known street near Charing Cross in London full of slightly odd secondhand bookstores, some of what they carry can get a bit strange. 
> 
> ^ This is a reference to Terry Pratchett’s _Mort_ where Death goes for a job interview and ends up speaking about the agricultural merits of his scythe. 
> 
> ** Yes, it’s that documentary by Al Gore. 
> 
> ^^ Maaaybe it’s just me. But honestly Tom Ellis always looks like he’s sporting eye make up in _Lucifer_. What the hey.


End file.
